The other day, Mike, Colin and I all had free time in the afternoon to get together and wander around in search of some wilderness. I’m not exactly sure if we found, but our trip to Deer Park was definitely worth documenting.
After some disconcerting confusion regarding our individual methods of transportation, the three of us began a casual walk through the woods at the very back of the park. Within minutes, we were in front of a very old tree with one half of its roots planted in the ground. The other side of its roots were completely exposed as they ran right to the shore of the lake. I cannot do it justice in writing; it should be seen in person. I would not say it was some hugely profound moment that needs to be documented, but all of us were fairly impressed and spent a couple minutes in silence, moving our stares from the bottom of the tree to its canopy, and back down.
I never thought I would be scared to try and fit myself inside a hollow tree. Yet when I was about to squeeze into the tiny gap of a fully hollowed-out tree, I had a weird wave of claustrophobia come over me. I am definitely not claustrophobic; I am far too small and slender to be frightened of small spaces. Once I my whole body was inside the tree I looked straight up and saw the sunlight fall through the top of the tree and then dissipate somewhere in the middle of the trunk. Even though there was a gab in the trunk, when I was facing in the complete opposite direction it was oddly dark. I did not expect that such a brief moment spent inside of a hollow tree would feel so weird. When I walked out, I sort of chuckled to myself and did not look back at the tree.
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